


En Pointe de Past

by ronandhermy



Category: Flesh and Bone (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 15:31:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9331649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronandhermy/pseuds/ronandhermy
Summary: A look into the past at how Bryan and Claire's physical relationship might have developed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is on the darker side in terms of grooming behavior by an older brother to a younger sister, along with the sexual abuse that followed the grooming.

When they were children Claire would sometimes sneak into Bryan’s room and cuddle with him on his bed. She could hide there, hide under her brother’s blankets and in his arms, while dad shouted and slammed anything he could get his hands on. Bryan would cover her ears so that she wouldn’t have to hear dad yelling about everything and nothing. She would fall asleep to the sound of her brother’s pulse and the muffled shouts of an alcoholic father. 

***  
The first time they kiss isn’t anything special. It’s just a peck on the mouth after Claire’s 8th grade ballet recital. She hadn’t played the lead but she had had a solo which she managed to do without any mistakes. Bryan even brought her flowers like the other girls got. 

She hadn’t questioned it. After all, she saw the other girls getting kisses from their parents. What did it matter that she was getting a kiss from her sibling? 

But that night dad had drunk more than his fair share and was in one of his more cruel moods. He ripped into both of them. Bryan was a sad excuse for a son who would never amount to anything. Claire was just like her mother always looking for the easy way out. On and on the rant went.

Claire had broken down into tears and run for her room. It wasn’t fair. She’d been happy. She was allowed to be happy.

Bryan came to her bed that night, cuddling her close and whispering “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” as she tried to suck in air. 

Then he kissed her. Not a peck, but a full out grown up kiss. One of his hands moved into her hair and gripped her head in place while the other one caressed her jaw. She tried to pull back but he just followed her. His mouth swallowing any noise she made. He kissed her again and again and again, holding her to him. 

When she opened her mouth to tell him to stop -- to ask him why he was kissing her -- his tongue filled her mouth. She gave up trying to struggle and just let Bryan kiss her. More than kiss her. It was like he was trying to devour her, sucking on her tongue, biting her lips. She even kissed back near the end wondering if this was what love was. 

He eventually pulled back, letting her catch her breath, before pulling her into his chest and going to sleep. 

The next morning she makes herself throw up. 

*** 

Bryan liked to touch her. She hadn’t thought anything of it, after all, she liked to touch him too. She enjoyed his hugs and holding his hand when she felt scared. Being held by him felt like protection. 

But then his touches started to stray. He liked to pet her back, up and down the line of her spine, feeling the complex system of muscles defined by years of dance. She usually enjoyed when he did it. It made her feel a bit like a cat. One of those pampered ones, like the Persian cat the dance studio owner was forever spoiling with treats. 

Then one night, a few weeks after she had started high school, his hand moved to cup one of her small breasts. She didn’t move. His hand was in her hair, gripping her ponytail tightly, a signal not to move that she had learned from the continued rounds of kissing. But his other hand moved from the dip of her spine, up her hip, until he cupped her breast, her worn cotton shirt providing little protection against the heat and weight of him.

He just held it. For minutes upon minutes as he stared into her eyes. Then his thumb starting to brush over her nipple, teasing it this way and that until a stiff peak began to form. Throughout this fondling his gaze never left hers.

What was she supposed to do? It felt nice but it shouldn’t. Claire knew that. Knew that brothers weren’t supposed to fondle their sister’s breasts and suck on their tongues in an attempt to draw out whimpers. That was something boyfriends were supposed to do. But this was Bryan. Bryan, her brother, who would never do anything to hurt her. 

And if she told him to stop would he ever touch her again? Would she lose her brother if she pulled away? Lose the one person who actually loved her?

Before Claire said anything, Bryan leaned forward and kissed her, his tongue invading her mouth. There was no need to speak as he continued to touch her breasts like they were gifts from god.

In the morning she turned her back to the mirror when she put on her bra and shirt.

***

His fingers were inside of her. Bryan shouldn’t be doing this, Claire knew that, but it felt so good. And wrong. But she wasn’t stopping him. And his dick was in her hand, moving up and down, as her other hand clutched her brother’s arm. It wasn’t like anything she had ever felt before. Hot and hard and warm and it pulsed as if it knew who exactly was holding it. 

His fingers were so big, filling her as she bit her lip to keep any sounds to herself. She bit down hard enough to bleed. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth as two of her brother’s fingers explored inside of her, between her legs, as his thumb brushed over her clit. He was clumsy, inexperienced, but then again so was she, and it felt good despite the amateur nature of the performance.

She clenched around his fingers and he grunted, moaning her name as his dick swelled in her hand. She pulled and touched and lost herself in the sensations. Bryan’s mouth was on her’s, drawing her moans into his, as his fingers worked with a renewed vigor. She felt like she might break, until she finally let go. Her inner walls clenching on her brother’s fingers, and her hand gripping his dick just a little too tight, but that didn’t stop him from coming all over her thighs. 

As she caught her breath Bryan slowly removed his fingers from inside of her, breaking out of their kiss. His eyes never left her’s as he lifted his hand and slowly, like a cat licking a particularly wonderful patch of cream, sucked on the fingers that had been inside of her. Tasting her. Owning her.

Her stomach clenched tight but she ignored it. She’d gotten good at ignoring things.

***  
When she danced she could forget everything but what her body was supposed to do. Even the simple basics of first position, fourth position, rise up from the core and down with grace. It was like an automatic off switch in her brain. 

In the dance studio, on the worn out floor, in her scuffed up pointe shoes, she could simply be. She had no father, no mother. No brother. She existed for no one and nothing, besides the dance. A dance of grace and beauty. A dance of escape.

Even Bryan watching her. Watching her leg extend, her arm arc, her spine reach. Even Bryan’s heavy eyes couldn’t corrupt the dance. This was hers. Only hers. In movement she was free.

***  
She was sixteen when she lost her virginity. Years later she didn’t know whether to scream or laugh hysterically when people assumed she was a frigid virgin. God, she wished.

It was Bryan’s eighteenth birthday and they’d gone to a basketball game to celebrate, sharing shitty nachos and overpriced popcorn, while nearly cheering themselves hoarse. They’d made their way home only to find they had the house to themselves. The best gift of all; their father’s absence.

They’d been kissing, just kissing, and then touching, and then things just went further this time. They were naked on her bed and something insistent was pushing in between her thighs. It didn’t hurt for all it felt strange and too large and not right. But no, it didn’t hurt.

It didn’t take long. It was Bryan’s first time too Claire would learn after. But each moment seem to stretch out to eternity as he moved inside of her. Bare. Of course there was no condom. There never was. 

He was so heavy on top of her, his hips pushing him deeper inside of her. His breath was harsh in her ear and it seemed to echo in her room with the faded pink wallpaper and cheap posters plastered over water stains. 

She didn’t come. He did. Inside of her. He came inside of her and then lay on top of her kissing her neck. She pet his hair while she stared at the ceiling feeling an odd new wetness between her thighs. 

While Bryan slept she took a shower. She turned the water as hot as she could stand it and then turned it up that just much more while she scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. She felt raw all over but not from her vigorous application of soap and washcloth.

Even after all of the cum was wiped away she swore she could still feel it running out of her. 

She stayed in the shower until the water turned to near glacial temperatures. 

The next day Bryan gave her a glass ballerina. 

*** 

They get better at sex. Deep inside she knows they shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be letting her own flesh and blood brother rut between her legs with no protection. Shouldn’t let him touch her as a lover does, trying to reach the deepest places inside of her. She knows it’s wrong. She knows all of this, but she doesn’t stop it.

At this point she’s not sure if she can’t stop or she won’t stop. She loves her brother. He’s always been there for her. He’s always loved her. And when you love someone, really love someone, aren’t you supposed to try and make them happy. And right now the thing that makes Bryan happiest is being with Claire. Being with her. Whether it’s making breakfast together or fucking on her bed.

Is it fucking? It seems such an impersonal word for such a personal act. It’s not making love. Whatever they’re making in that moment is so much deeper -- so much darker -- than mere love.Maybe it’s not love at all. Maybe it’s something not yet named but is known by a sickness in the soul. A sickness that Claire swears she can sometimes feel reaching up into her throat and strangling her. On those days she doesn’t eat much. 

It’s sex and sex is private no matter what modern television shows say. Or at least that’s what Claire tells herself. It’s private. Nobody’s business but her own who she sleeps with. Even if who she sleeps with shares her last name. Her DNA. 

A few days later she breaks a toe but dances on it anyway. 

 

***

She gets a year working for her dream before her life comes crashing down around her ears. Just a year. Not even a year. A season. 

She’s pregnant and it’s not like she doesn’t know who the father is.

She hates him. Hates her body. Hates herself.

She has this thing growing inside of her now. A physical reminder that her brother has been inside of her and left his mark. A scar that’s going to ruin everything.

He’s not even upset when he finds out. He almost seems excited. And Claire wants to slit his throat for that but she’s too busy shaking and thinking about all the times she didn’t want him but let him have her anyway because she wanted to be loved.

If this was the price of love then it was too high. She wanted to be a ballerina. She did not want to be a mother.

She throws up and she knows it’s not because of the baby.

***

Their dad finds out. And in the first fatherly move he’s made in at least a decade he decides to separate them. Never mind that it’s a bit like shutting the barn door after the horses have run away and the barn is burning to the ground. 

Bryan is sent to the Marines. Claire; doctors and a shrink.

She needs it after losing her job, the father of her child and her brother, and what was left of her self respect, all in one blow. 

Not to mention the fact that she doesn’t want to be pregnant. Not now and never again.

***

She gives birth while he’s being shot at.

She signs the final adoption papers --closed and records sealed for all of time--while he watches a 19 year old get his head shot off. 

***

She’s in therapy. 

It’s helping. Maybe. 

It helps her understand things like grooming and co-dependency and abusive behaviors. But understanding doesn’t mean she gets better. Understanding doesn’t mean she can shake the feelings of fear and shame and guilt that cling to her like a second skin. 

Sometimes she hurts herself as a reminder that she exists. That she is in the present. No longer pregnant. No longer spreading her legs for her brother. No longer looking for love. Who needs that silly emotion anyway? 

She is working on getting her form back. On being the best ballerina she can be. On forgetting who she was and where she came from. 

After all, everyone has a secret. Her’s is just her whole self. 

***

She buys a lock for her bedroom door even though the monster that loves her is half a world away. She doesn’t care. She locks the door anyway.


End file.
